


four heads (one heartbeat)

by jediseagull



Series: love ain't nothing [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boys Getting Feelings All Over, Embarrassingly Not-Heat-Sex, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Psychic Wolves, References to Heat-Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 06:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10870863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jediseagull/pseuds/jediseagull
Summary: He knows he's being stupid. As though fussing with his hair has helped calm him down any of the other hundred times he’s done it in the past six weeks. As though what he looks like has any bearing on the painful knowledge that there’s no way he’s going home to Russia this summer after all.As though ignoring the clock that tells him they’re fifteen minutes late for their appointment could change the fact that Varya is pregnant with a litter of Moth's pups, and he hasn’t been able to look at Sid without feeling like shit since March.





	four heads (one heartbeat)

**Author's Note:**

> This is bribery for the hockey gods that grew about two thousand words of feelings and non-sexy set-up, which is...pretty much par for the course, honestly. WRITING SMUT IS SUFFERING ETC ETC. Not beta-read and also written in a single night because I make awesome life choices and it's a rule of playoffs-bribery that it's A Struggle(TM).
> 
> Some discussion around involuntary heat-induced feelings, but all sex both discussed and in this fic is fully consensual.

The morning after locker cleanout, Zhenya spends fifteen minutes running his hands through his hair, trying to get one stubborn curl to lie flat.

He’s being stupid, he knows. As though fussing with his hair has helped calm him down any of the other hundred times he’s done it in the past six weeks. As though what he looks like has any bearing on the painful knowledge that they’re out of the playoffs in five embarrassing games, or that there’s no way he’s going home to Russia this summer after all, or that he hasn’t been able to look Sid in the eye since March.

As though ignoring the clock that tells him they’re fifteen minutes late for their appointment could change the fact that Varya is pregnant. They’ve got their official check-up with the doctor today to confirm the lab results on her blood test, but Varya knows herself and Zhenya knows his sister.

Wolves have little interest in medical science and even less interest in the very human notion of punctuality; he could blow the appointment off entirely and Varya wouldn’t care. Seryozha is drowning his sorrows in time spent with his family, so he can’t shoot Zhenya pointed looks until the guilt gets his feet moving. He’s almost made up his mind to just crawl back into bed until everything stops seeming so awful, and then his phone buzzes.

 _can i come over_ , Sid has texted.

Suddenly, going to the doctor sounds a lot more appealing.

 _no_ , he texts back. And then, because he can picture the unhappy wrinkle that’s taken up permanent residence between Sid’s brows whenever Zhenya’s in the same room, he offers, _i take varya to doctor_.

He regrets his generosity immediately. Now he has to go, because Sid’s going to ask him how it went out of courtesy and captainly responsibility, never mind that he’s not actually captain yet, and either Zhenya’s going to have to tell him that he lied - or he has to go to the damn appointment.

He puts on flip flops, looks outside at the gloomy spring day, and changes into sneakers instead.

_Come on._

Varya yawns hugely before she rolls to her feet with grace, not yet encumbered by the pups growing in her belly. She’s upset about the playoffs too, in part because she’s an alpha bitch who doesn’t like losing and in part because she knows that he’s upset, but it doesn’t eat at her the same way. As far as she’s concerned, she’s gotten what she wanted out of the season.

He gives her the memory of the blood test when she sends him a vague question, _where-what-why_?

Her snout wrinkles. _No needles today_ , he promises, and she manages the mental equivalent of an eye roll, a flurry of thoughts and images and irritation that makes it very clear she’s not scared of a little needle. She just doesn’t see why some strange human needs to tell her what she already knows to be true.

She jumps into the backseat of the SUV without prompting, and Zhenya thinks idly that he’s going to have to find some sort of portable step-stool once the pups are old enough to start walking around. But thinking of the pups toddling around on oversized paws makes him think about the KHL, which has a half-claim to Varya’s litters and would like to have the full of it, and thinking about _that_ makes him think think of the NHL, which has a claim to the other half of this particular litter because neither Varya nor her brother had the good sense to fall for a nice Russian boy and his nice Russian wolf.

So now he’s thinking about Sid again, and how Sid makes everything easy on the ice and so, so difficult off of it, and fuck, that was the entry to the parking garage.

He has to do an incredibly illegal u-turn, then, because the next spot to do one legally is a mile and a half down the road and also he doesn’t give a shit. Varya eyes him critically in the rearview mirror as he does it, but she’s judging him for his - _unnecessary_ , she interjects - distraction, not his terrible driving.

He’s explained it to her before, but as smart as she is, he’s not sure she really gets it. To her mind, it’s a natural process for pups to grow older and join other packs; she doesn’t understand why the KHL would want to keep him, keep them both, doesn’t understand that the pre-established rules around this kind of thing might change if a litter is born on Russian soil.

The NHL isn’t any more likely to keep its part of the deal, of course, but at the end of the day Zhenya would rather be trapped in Pittsburgh than Magnitogorsk - and so, he’s pretty sure, would Varya. He just doesn’t like to think about why. He could have happily gone on believing until his retirement that the warmth in his chest when he looks at Sid is merely an overspill of Varya’s affections for Moth.

He doesn’t believe that any more. But then, he doesn’t _not_ believe it. They haven’t actually spoken since the heat broke. Every time Zhenya goes home to his bed, Varya curling up in the crook of his knees, and misses having another two bodies to share it with - is it him, then? Is it her?

And how can he tell the difference?

There are only a handful of cars in the garage, probably skeleton staff, and he finds a spot near the elevator without any problems. It’s similarly deserted inside the building itself, only the tap of his shoes and the click of Varya’s claws on concrete until they hit the carpeted hallway, and then there’s no sound at all.

Varya lifts her head, intent on something Zhenya can’t see. They turn the corner.

At the far end of the hall, a man straightens from crouching over the unmistakable canine shape of a trellwolf.

Varya’s not the head bitch of the Pens’ pack - that’s Victoire, still a force to be reckoned with despite the gray around her muzzle - but she’s a queen wolf in her own right, with a queen wolf’s connection to the pack sense, and Zhenya doesn’t need to see their faces to know who’s waiting for them.

He quashes the urge to drag Varya out of there by her tail, but she’s already darted forward to greet the other wolf. Traitor.

So there’s nothing for it but to grit his teeth and think, as nonchalantly as he can, _Hi, Sid._

“Hi,” Sid says, and has the gall to blush slightly. “Sorry, Moth found out and, well…”

At his side, Moth has forgone his usual restrained nose bump and is letting Varya gnaw affectionately on his ear. His tail is so jaunty that Zhenya could almost mistake him for Bouleau, if Flower’s brother weren’t nearly twice Moth’s size and the pale gold of a birch tree to Moth’s dusty brown.

“I did tell him that we couldn’t go in if you didn’t want us there, and that all we’d know today is if there were definitely going to be puppies, but -” He shrugs. “He insisted we stay.”

Sid’s cheeks are pink. Zhenya wonders if he’s lying. Moth, as far as Zhenya knows, has never insisted about anything. No other wolf is so quiet in the pack sense. Present, yes, but in the manner of a shadow, or like his namesake - utterly silent. He wonders if that’s why Sid prefers to speak out loud.

Zhenya still hasn’t answered the question Sid’s not asking, but one look at Varya and Moth makes it apparent that using her as an excuse will be an exercise in futility. She’s moved on to letting Moth groom her, eyes half-lidded in contentment.

“His pups too,” Zhenya says, a not-answer for the not-question. When he knocks on the door and Dr. Chase gestures them inside, he doesn’t protest as Sid and Moth follow right behind them.

She’s pregnant, of course. Varya responds to the news with a smug aura of _I-told-you-so_ that makes Sid snort with surprised laughter, but Zhenya sinks to the floor to wrap his arms around her neck and let her ruin his carefully-smoothed hair with her tongue because she’s happy, so happy, and in the face of that nothing else matters.

Sid laughs when he stands up, probably at the slobber that’s spiking his hair into a bird’s nest tangle. Zhenya shoves at him, Varya’s joy making it easy for him to laugh back, and they grin at each other until Dr. Chase coughs and says, “Well, Evgeni, she’s due in early September - maybe a few weeks later, since it’s her first litter. If you’re going to be staying here for the summer, we should plan at least another two appointments so we can make sure everything is progressing nicely.”

At the word _stay_ , Sid’s grin freezes on his face. Zhenya feels his own disappear.

“If - yes,” he manages. Varya abandons Moth to press against his knee, and for a moment it feels as though she’s the only thing holding him up.

Wolfless as she is, Dr. Chase isn’t blind. “Of course, if you’d like to think about your plans for the next few months,” she says tactfully, “I’ll be in town regardless. As long as you let me know a week or so in advance, I should be able to fit you two in. You have my contact number? Good.”

“Thank you,” Sid says, always polite, and Zhenya mutters his thanks as well as Dr. Chase shakes both of their hands and sends them back out into the hallway.

“ _Are_ you going to stay?” Sid asks. The door’s barely finished closing.

“Yes,” Zhenya says, pushing it through the pack sense layered with the image of himself telling Dr. Chase the same thing.

He is going to stay, he’s just not looking forward to it. Seryozha is going back to Moscow for the summer, taking Ksenya and Natasha with him. Most of the guys will be doing the same thing - seeing family, traveling all around the globe. Going home. He won’t be lonely, per se - how can he be lonely, when he has Varya? But it will be a hard summer.

Sid bites his lip. “Oh.”

 _Oh_ , Zhenya thinks at him, since Varya’s apparently decided he’s not entitled to privacy if he’s going to feel sorry for himself. _It’s fine, Sid. You help name puppies when you come back._

He gets a sense of confusion the instant before Sid says, “Come back from where?”

It startles him into speaking. “Home?”

“I’m not going home,” Sid says. “Or, I mean. I am, Taylor would kill me if I didn’t go at all, but only for a week?”

Zhenya blinks at him, feeling even more lost than he usually does when Sid starts chattering. At least this time Sid seems to pick up on it. “I, uh. I did mention Moth wanted to stay.”

“For appointment,” Zhenya says faintly. “Not _summer_.”

“Do you mind?” But Zhenya knows that narrow look to his eyes, remembers it from the face-off dot and the floor of the heat-room when Sid had insisted, _you first_. He’s not asking for permission.

What could he say, anyways? No, I mind, go back to Canada for three months? And after that, what then? This is going to be Varya’s pack one day, this is meant to be a new home for the both of them. No one expects Sid and Zhenya to adhere to the old ways and lead the team together just because Varya chose Moth as a mate, but they can’t avoid each other forever, either.

“No.”

Sid relaxes, fingers uncurling from the thick fur at Moth’s neck. “I thought -“ he says, because Sid’s never met an inch given that he couldn’t turn into a mile, and how sad is it that Zhenya finds that attractive rather than irritating? “The Gonchars aren’t going to be around, so maybe I could bring Moth by sometimes and he and Varya can hang out?”

 _Yes_ , Varya says.

“What,” Zhenya says.

 _Yes. Visit lots_ , Varya commands, and Sid takes a knee so he can look her in the eyes and promise.

“Congratulations, by the way,” he adds at the end, holding her gaze, and the message he sends through the pack sense is strong enough that Zhenya can taste it at the back of his throat, the smelting iron of Varya’s scent name plunged into the snowbanks of Moth’s _shelter-in-a-blizzard_ , his own happiness about the pups to come as bright as a signal flare.

Varya, who is shameless about her flirtations with Moth but generally self-restrained with other people, licks him right across the face. To his credit, Sid only flinches a little bit, and when he stands again he’s smiling.

“I’ll text you, eh?” he says, to Zhenya this time.

He must nod, or give some other indication that he’s processed those words as anything other than white noise, because Sid says something about needing to go talk to Mario, he’ll see them later, and then Zhenya’s left alone in the hallway with his awful, beautiful, evil sister.

 _I hate you_ , he thinks. Varya laughs at him the entire way back to the Gonchars’ house.

Not as much as she laughs when Sid shows up two weeks later, having texted half an hour before that he was going to bring sushi for lunch and did Zhenya want any kamikaze rolls? Without, of course, actually asking if Zhenya was going to be home or wanted visitors.

When the buzzer rings he opens the door for Sid anyways, because he’s a sucker. Also, Seryozha put a childproof lock on the door but not a wolf-proof one, so if he doesn’t do it then Varya will.

“Sushi,” Sid says, holding the bags of takeout aloft as though Zhenya might not have guessed that’s what they were.

Zhenya just rolls his eyes and goes to get plates. If he acts normal and ignores the way his heart is pounding like he’s been double-shifted, then everything will be fine.

Right?

Except then Sid takes the other end of the loveseat instead of settling into the recliner, and even if the official stats exaggerate his height he’s not exactly small. There’s maybe six inches of space between their legs if Zhenya feels like being generous.

He doesn’t feel generous. He feels stifled, dizzy, and the only thing keeping him from bolting out of the room when Sid leans forward and across his thigh to pick up another piece of sashimi is the faint hope that Varya’s not too distracted by Moth to shield him from the pack sense.

Sid probably wouldn’t be here if she weren’t, he thinks. He’s not sure if that’s better or worse.

The tuna is red between Sid’s lips. Varya and Moth have vanished outside; he can tell, when he pulls himself together enough to concentrate, that they’re basking in the sunlit grass together, almost dozing. Varya is as relaxed as she ever is outside unconsciousness, her mind a gentle lull of _safe_ , _warm_ , the contentment of being surrounded by - _pack_ , she thinks sleepily, and that’s how Zhenya knows.

Sid is his teammate. Sid will be his captain soon enough.

But Sid isn’t pack. One day, maybe, but not yet. What he feels isn’t the quiescent comfort of his wolf’s love. It’s something incendiary in Zhenya himself that catches fire when Sid touches him. Even outside the heat-room he is ablaze with it, burning up with every minute they sit on this damn sofa and don’t say a word to each other.

“I didn’t know it's Varya’s first litter.” Zhenya twitches, and Sid must read it as embarrassment, because he hurriedly adds, “It’s not a bad thing, I just didn’t know. I guess I thought she would have had a litter last year, before you left?”

“They want,” Zhenya says, and his voice comes out as a croak. He has to swallow before he can try again. “They want, but I buy suppressants. Say she’s maybe late, you know?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. “It’s Moth’s - that was our first time through heat, too.” He makes a face. “I hadn’t realized how tiring it was gonna be. I don’t think it did the team any favors for us to go into that last push before playoffs exhausted.”

“Yes, next time I see if Varya can have heat during All-Star break.” He holds his breath, waiting to see if Sid will call him out on the assumption that they’ll be going through Varya’s next heat together, too. But Sid just sighs, eyelashes falling shut as he stretches out against the back of the couch.

“That would be amazing.”

God, what a dork. If Zhenya blew him right here in the living room, would he sigh like that again? “Yes. Amazing.”

Sid cracks one eye open, suspicious. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Yes,” Zhenya tells him helplessly. “Why you hate All-Star game so much?”

“It’s a waste of time,” Sid grumbles. “And it’s not like we need to be burning energy on something that doesn’t count towards playoffs when we’ve still got half a season left.”

“No All-Star game because it’s waste, no sex because you too tired - Sid, you have _any_ fun during season?”

“I didn’t say no sex, I said no heat,” Sid protests. “And fuck you, I don’t think you get to insult my stamina after everything we did.”

“Do too,” Zhenya says, knowing as he does so that it’s a bad choice. Sid’s upright again in his indignation, leaning into Zhenya’s space, and God help him, Zhenya’s not moving away. This close, he can see every fleck of color in Sid’s hazel irises. The sight must do something to his brain, because the next thing he knows he’s smirking and saying, “Heat’s not count.”

As though there’s any way for Sid to take that but a challenge.

“Fuck you,” Sid says again, and then he crashes their mouths together like he’s trying to devour Zhenya whole. He can’t breathe without tasting the beer Sid’s left half-drunk on the coffee table, can’t stop his hands from yanking Sid’s t-shirt up until he’s got his palms on skin, he’s so hard, fuck, and nothing is as awful as hearing the whimpering noise that comes out of his own mouth when Sid pulls away enough to say, defiant and glorious and breathless, “Does this count?”

“Yes, fuck, Sid.” He would say anything if it would bring Sid closer, if it would earn him Sid nipping at his jaw and pressing bruising kisses down the line of his throat. He takes his own shirt off when Sid pushes at the hemline, the moment of separation nearly painful until he can wriggle down to sprawl along the length of the sofa, Sid’s legs bracketing his. 

And then it is painful, because they’re both still in their jeans and the metal of his zipper is pressing into his cock, trapped in place by the weight of Sid’s hips and impossibility of squirming out his pants without also falling off the couch. Sid seems to realize this at the same moment he does, because he glares at Zhenya’s sternum for a moment, heaves a colossal sigh, and then rolls off of him to sit on his heels on the carpet. “Well, that was a shit plan. Do you have lube in your bedroom?”

Asked so frankly, the question is jarring. But Sid waits patiently for Zhenya to translate the phrase and then translate it again, sure he’s made a mistake. He almost doesn’t want to answer, in case it spells the end of whatever thing it is they’re doing - _the word you’re looking for is mistake_ , whispers a voice in the back of his head - but he has to eventually. “No. Sorry.” It had felt rude to bring people back to the house when there were kids upstairs, and though there are no such compunctions right now, he hasn’t had a chance to pick up supplies from the pharmacy.

Sid just looks assessing, as though he’s seeing ten different options play out and is evaluating the pros and cons of each one. “Then can I blow you?”

It’s not how he’d fantasized the scenario playing out, but he’s achingly hard even thinking about Sid on his knees, those lips swollen from Zhenya’s kisses wrapped around his cock. “Anything you want,” he says, and means it down to his bones.

“Good,” Sid says. “I want your pants off.” Zhenya can’t move quickly enough, every fumble another second too long to wait, and he kicks his jeans halfway across the room as soon as they’re past his knees. His briefs go with them.

He’s been naked and hard in front of Sid before, but it’s different to be found desperate and wanting in the throes of heat. He wants to cover himself almost as much as he wants to show off, but Sid settles the matter for him by bracing his forearm across Zhenya’s bare thighs and -

“ _Fuck_.” That’s Sid’s tongue, he thinks, those teasing swipes of soft heat that alternate with sloppy kisses at the crown, just enough that Zhenya can’t tell if the tip of his cock is wet with spit or precome. He could look. He can’t look. His eyes are closed, head tossed back as Sid’s kisses become more demanding, his tongue licking harder, only to ease off once more. Zhenya has to jam his hands into the cushions so that he can’t grab anything else - Sid’s hair, the back of his head - and whether it would be to make him stop or to demand more, he’s not sure which. All he knows is that he wants, and Sid has the power to give.

“Stamina,” Sid says, and kisses his inner thigh so sweetly that Zhenya has to curse at him long and loud in Russian so that he doesn’t lose control and thrust up.

“Fuck you.” He’s panting, harsh breaths through his nose, and it turns into a groan as Sid finally gets his mouth on him properly, the iron grip of his fingers on Zhenya’s leg a minor distraction compared to the sensation of being taken in inch by inch and then _held_ , long enough that a tiny part of him wonders how Sid’s breathing. The rest is too busy trying not to writhe, to thrust, to do something, anything, and when Sid begins to move, pulling back to inhale before swallowing him back down, it’s an even greater relief than to have his mouth in the first place.

He loses time like that, caught between the steadiness of Sid’s hand keeping him still and the rhythm of his hand and mouth working Zhenya’s cock. Only the jolt of pressure when he hits the back of Sid’s throat brings him back, and the first time it happens Zhenya’s hips curl upwards on reflex, making Sid grunt and pull away.

“Shit, sorry, sorry -“

“Don’t apologize,” Sid says, and he sounds wrecked, ruined in the best way because he’s so satisfied by it. He resettles his arm across Zhenya’s lap and dives back in, and after the third time Zhenya’s cock bumps his throat he realizes Sid’s doing it on purpose, pushing himself to go that little bit farther because Zhenya had liked it, and the moment of realization feels like watching a dam collapse, aware of what’s about to happen and completely incapable of stopping it.

He gasps. “I’m -”

Sid’s grip tightens an impossible increment more, holding him in place, but he keeps the head of Zhenya’s cock in his mouth as Zhenya shakes and shivers and comes.

He doesn’t bother to take his own jeans off all the way, unzipping himself and - fuck, spitting Zhenya’s come into his own hand to stroke himself with it. It’s filthy and possibly the hottest thing Zhenya’s ever seen, Sid kneeling with a hand on his own cock and a look on his face like he’s being driving onwards by a need he can’t name. He knows what desperation looks like on Sid’s features, and this isn’t it. This is agony, excruciating and wonderful at the same time, and Zhenya half-leans, half-falls forward to kiss him and add his hand to Sid’s. In another few strokes Sid tenses all over like he’s been shocked, and that’s all the warning Zhenya gets before he spills with a groan, collapsing forward until they’re propped awkwardly against each other. Zhenya is slowly sliding off the couch, but he can wait a moment more.

“Well?” Sid says after a few minutes have passed. Zhenya gives up on trying to keep his ass on the sofa and falls with a thump to the carpet.

“Well, what?” he asks, but he knows what Sid wants to hear.

Sid punches him in the arm gently. Gently-ish, anyways.

“Yes, you very good. Best blowjob ever.” If he glances out of the corner of his eye, he can actually see Sid grin triumphantly. Unfortunately, no one ever accused Zhenya of maturity. “But.”

“What do you mean, but?”

Zhenya shrugs, grinning. “Blowjob’s not count either.” And maybe it is a mistake, maybe he’s setting himself up for heartbreak and disappointment - but if the thrill that goes through him at Sid’s answering grin is any indication, it’s already too late for that.

“Guess I’m just gonna have to find something that does,” Sid says, and the spark in his eyes promises that oh, yeah, it’s definitely too late - and there’s no way Zhenya’s turning back.


End file.
